And definitions. I am hooked on dictionary definitions; I love how they look on paper, en bloggie, online, etc. Like this:

co·a·lesce

/ˌkōəˈles/

verb

(used without object),co·a·lesced,co·a·lesc·ing.

to grow together or into one body: The two lakes coalesced into one.

to unite so as to form one mass, community, etc.: The various groups coalesced into a crowd.

to blend or come together: Their ideas coalesced into one theory.

Sure, this is all odd and strange and completely moot to the ebb and flow of life, I mean, seriously? What do the love of a word and the appearance of its definition have to do with MAKIN' IT through each day successfully??

No clue, except that I like words, I guess you could say that I am hooked on those, too. I love putting words together and magically seeing the jumble of thoughts merge, in point, on screen or paper, right in front of my tired face. Lovely. Really. And soothing, like venting, burning off pressure-steam, vomiting, defecating, voiding, resetting... and refreshing. Like viewing what is as WHAT IT REALLY IS.

Ok, so be that what it may, my state of "hooked on words, definitions, putting words together... " etc., etc., likely defines the presence of bloggie and the box full of journals that were born when I was eight years old... the very day I turned eight and the very day before I had a tonsillectomy. Funny enough, while composing my first journal entry EVER, I remember struggling with how to spell TONSILS. And damn if I didn't nail it... but I didn't know that I had nailed it until years later when I found that little green diary with the fake gold latch-lock guarding the chicken scratch of the eight-year-old-me, buried in a box of old Barbie stuff. How well I remember that birthday party, outside the single-wide domicile that I shared with my mother, at the picnic table full of presents and CAKE. There was family there, aunts, cousins, uncles, grandparents, and my brother. This company was rare (someday I'll tell you why). Not good nor bad memories, just vivid. *shrugs* And hot. It's always ridiculously hot on my birthday.

Coalesce, because I must get on with it, is a good word. It makes me think of a grown-up, literally, in the word world. Like, when Coalesce was a young word, it was called Mix or Join, but with active effort and dignification, Mix/Join evolved into Coalesce and now humans get to write seemingly meaningless blog posts in its honor. Yes. So instead of asking, "Would you like to join me," I could ask instead, "Shall we coalesce?"

So instead of asking, "Would you like to join me," I could ask instead: "Shall we coalesce?"

Right? How classy is THAT?

Seriously, though, it's about the meaning of the word. Coalesce, especially during these modern times of division and separateness, is a classy reminder that at the end of the day, we all came from our mommas.

Omygawds, and here I go...

I am so completely annoyed with how Homosapiens must CONSTANTLY stand divided and dramatically so, at that. C'mon! So here we are, the absolute most intelligent species EVER... with our huge brains and frontal cortexes that fuel our cognition, emotional capacities, linguistics, reasoning, memory, and our oh-so-sound judgment capabilities! All of which, by the way, designates our species as superior to those of other primates, or so WE THINK (with our frontal cortexes )...

So what do we do with our big brains? These phenomenally advanced Homosapien brains? What do we do with them? *rolls eyes* We start stupid shit. All the time and sadly, even I am not immune to stupid shit-staring.

Mm-hm. Yes. For example, how about the division of Cat & Dog people?

Oh for crying out loud... Cat & Dog people will argue their cause just like a Democrat and Republican will. According to each, one is superior over the other, one is smarter than the other, one is of higher value than the other... blah, blah, blah. Opposing views must be heard, they say, and listeners must commit to a side, the best side, and join in the movement! Ugh. Shut up.

Nonetheless, all the petty mayhem causes conflict and Homospaien division.

*rolls eyes*

Cat & Dog people...

Sidenote: please note that I listed cat first, NOT because I am expressing bias, but because C comes before D in the English alphabet. I could also use Canine & Feline to REALLY prove that I have no bias, but I do have a bias; I want to write about Cats & Dogs, not compose a peer-reviewed science journal about Canines & Felines. OK?

Anyway.

Therefore, all the big brains that mayhaps read this post will (likely) understand, and accept, alphabetization as the default and unbias modeling that contributes to Prozac & Coffee.

(Moving on)

To prove their causes, Cat & Dog people might make some of the following points:

"Cats rule, Dogs drewl"

"Cats are dumb, Dogs are smart"

"Cats have staff, Dogs have masters"

"Cats are independent, Dogs are happy to be dependent.

... and so on.

But really? Why must there be Cat & Dog people as a title for judgment? Why for can it NOT be about Cat & Dog people fulfilling the specific needs of specific species, ALL OF WHICH contribute to LIFE ON EARTH? Yeah.

That.

Cats & Dogs are two parts of a greater whole, just like Men & Women.

That.

There is not one that is better than the other, but rather, both fulfill each where the other is weak.

Ok, this one? I've pegged the differences between Cat & Dog people, and I see them as just that: Differences, not weaknesses. Cat people appreciate the lack of dependence and Dog people appreciate the lack of independence. That's all. Simple as that.

So shut up about it, Big-Brained Homosapiens...

In essence, to coalesce (in the dictionary of My Opinions) is to divide as necessary, but not to categorize it as better or worse, more or less, smarter or dumber. Different parts of a whole, folks, gather together to obtain similar goals and succeed.

Literally, DIFFERENCES are added flavor to Homosapien's will of freedom. Right? And it's ok to have different views, but our stupid big brains always seem to forget the synonymous end goal of survival, capitalized spendable income, foreheads to kiss, and furry friends to pet.

Remember, Cat & Dog people... WE ALL COME FROM OUR MOMMAS.

Mm-hm. *snap snap*

Postscript: Guess what? Coalesce has been born unto P & C as a new regular. Welcome, Coalesce, a word that represents the direction of my soul, welcome.

Several years ago I went to a funeral. No, no, it wasn't my first and has not since been my last. However, it was the funeral that brought me to terms with my take on the subject matter of this post.

I have lived long enough to understand that there is more than one way to cope. Be it coping with stress, trauma, sleeplessness, or death, people deal in tune to who they are. That means, of course, in regards to this post, that some people hold funerals, closed or open caskets, for their departed loved ones. Some people honor their deceased with a memorial service or by sitting shiva for 7 days. While others hold vigils or rituals while dancing and offering sacrifices. Human coping is colorful and judgment should be withheld while humans honor their dead; let them cope, man, let them cope.

That being said, however, since I'm a huge fan of respecting human differences, colors, and tunes, I'm going to gripe about how humans (quite often) forget about WHO HAS ACTUALLY DIED. What I mean is... for some mourners it seems that death erases human imperfection and replaces the human version of their loved one with an angel, or martyr, or some form of noble perfection. Like, suddenly, tah-dah, the departed was never guilty of jealousy, greed, hatred, exclusion, or deceit.

This is coping. I know this. The pain of loss is tremendous and many seek release from the grips of such profound emptiness by any means possible. I get it, I get it, I get it, in fact, I am not exempt or beyond coping (oh lawds, not by any means!!).

But.

Because this is my place, I can say what I want to.

Martyring and shrining is not realistic! And not real, in certain terms, bothers me!

So I feel like this:

When I die, first of all, do not bury me. Please no. Donate whatever is viable, perform an autopsy to learn something (if applicable), and cremate me. Please. I do not want to be viewed in my coffin with clay on my face and formaldehyde in my plumbing. I don't want my children or grandchildren or ANYONE to be haunted by the image of dead me or the dead smellof me. No, no. Let the alive me resonate and haunt them. And besides, depending on how and when I leave this world, there may not be much left of me to view? Right? How awesome it would be if there was a someone who could benefit from my retinas (hopefully they will not have my classic, extreme myopic eye-ball), or my skin, or kidneys, or even my arteries for those poor folk who suffer from CAD. Yes! Maybe a few pieces of my heart or lungs or liver could supply a benefit to some form of humanity...

Selfishly, though, I want to live to be old. I want to witness the changing of times, the accomplishments and aging of my loved-ones. Hell. If there's a zombie apocalypse, I want to see it! I want to witness mankind transition from shit to sunshine; I want to be old enough to start smoking cigarettes again, eat whatever my old body can deal with and drink whiskey without worry! Yes! Aging is an honor, and I will be honored to make it to an old, wrinkly, and crazier version of myself.

Anyway.

What will be, will be. Whatever and whenever it is my time, I hope that parts of me will help parts of others.

Ok, ok, but, I have to spew forth more.

If one is to speak at my memorial service (because remember, there will be no viewing of my dead body and no wasting money and ground space on a coffin with burial accessories), I want them to honor and remember the REAL ME. The ME that they knew, complete with imperfections, flaws, and perpetual ill-fitting scrubs (too long, too tight, too big, too many holes). The jaded-me, the bossy-me, the throwing-my-cell-phone temper-tantrum-me, the potty-mouth-me, the bitch-at-my-husband-all-the-time-me, the too-lazy-to-take-a-shower-me, the not-visit-my-mother-and-father-enough-me, the cry-at-TV-animal-death-but-not-TV-human-death-me, the I'll-pretend-nothing-is-wrong-me, the TWO-faced-me (we all have a second face... you know this), the I-haven't-changed-my-bed-sheets-in-a-month-me, the I-love-whiskey-sours-every-night-me, the unsocial-me, the oh-hell-yes-I-will-pick-my-undies-out-of-my-butt-me, the Facebook-stalker-me, the rolling-my-mind's-eye-a-million-times-a-day-me, the I-don't-like-you-but-you-will-never-know-that-me, the I-know-your-game-me (but I won't tell... I'll keep it secret for my own reasons), the damn-at-least-my-ass-doesn't-look-like-that-me, the I-hate-managing-money-so-therefore-I-suck-at-it-me, the I-pick-at-my-fingers-when-I-am-under-stress-me, the THANK-GAWDS-for-my-Prozac-me...

Yes. Remember the real me. The ME that is guilty of sneaking away from the crowd to toot, the ME that doesn't care and toots in the crowd and lets others assume the blame, the ME that talks too loud when I get riled, the ME that is grateful that you cannot read my mind as you freak out about the needle I'm about to stick in your arm, the ME that laughs at the dipshit who spins out in the snowy median while driving like a douche-bag (This! How often do we see justice served? It's sweet and I savor it!), the ME that plays stupid, the ME that pulled my sisters hair when I was a teenager, the ME that forgot to pick a kid up from school, the ME that (shamefully) smoked cigarettes while pregnant, the ME that doesn't shave her legs for several weeks at a time during the winter, the ME that is tired of maintaining her chubby "bikini" zone, the ME that loves rain and snow storms and cloudy days, the ME... the ME that is flawed beyond repair, aged beyond innocence, experienced beyond ignorance, exhausted beyond inadequacy, fed-up beyond game-play, and humbled beyond conceit. Repeatedly.

...the ME that forgot to pick a kid up from school...

Yes... that ME. The ME that has an endless list of flaws, most harmless and some that need serious attention. The ME that identifies the good, of course, however, the good that wouldn't be notable if it weren't for my endless stream of flaws.

The ME that is mostly happy to have reached a point in life where I am OK with admitting my weaknesses and not feeling "less than" for doing so. I think it takes something to do that... not to brag.

But mostly, for crying out loud, if you stand up to speak at my memorial service and you can not think of what to say, say the truth! If I bossed you around while we played Barbies as kids, say it! If it was me that told you Santa is not real, THEN SAY IT. If I stuffed my snot tissues under YOUR pillow during camping trips, reveal it! If I smacked the rump of a horse that you were riding bareback and laughed as it took off all barn-happy with you clinging for dear life, SHARE IT! If I got mad at you because you were skinnier and got cold faster while swimming, call my dead-ass out!

Seriously, I am not THAT old, but things are happening, the very things that I never imagined would apply to me.

Not such a big deal, now that I am here… I still feel valuable and valued and I am managing to swallow the lump in my throat… you know, that lump of realization that youth and outward beauty has decreased... Yeah, THAT lump. Regardless, I am handling this all better than I thought I would.

Do not get me wrong, it is not altogether pleasant, by any means.

So here I sit with this aging body. I know that I must approach certain things differently than I once used to. For example, stooping and/or deep bending at the knees. Shockingly, as of lately, I notice that once I am down, I cannot get back up in reverse; my knees have lost their torque. I find myself, embarrassingly, scrambling in such a way that only a chubby, middle-aged woman would do, to regain full height. Granted, I am certain that I could remedy this problem with simple weight loss and strength training, but… I will procrastinate until after I finish my nursing program. That is my new thing and my list is growing.

Anyway.

Another horror that I have stumbled upon are dark vinyl, pattern-less, sitting chairs. Do you have any idea what this means? It means that upon standing up from chairs such as this, I must check for butt and poot splotch. YEAH. I WENT THERE. My rogue-ass ovary has initiated overheating in my derriere and down-under region and I am pissed about it… Now I must constantly avoid certain sitting arrangements and if I cannot avoid sitting, then I must strategically raise with a butt-sliding motion to wipe the evidence of splotchy, female aging from the seat.

My rogue-ass ovary has initiated overheating in my derriere and down-under region and I am pissed about it…

MORTIFYING, MORTIFYING, MORTIFYING, especially when I forget the maneuver upon rising, OR if the maneuver fails altogether. I mean, how gross is it to see somebody’s butt and poot splotch?!? Who wants to sit there after THAT? *Sigh* And this whole mortification is based on my own witness account… Lemme tell you about it.

One day, long ago, when I was young and rarely humiliated by my youthful body (only by the occasional stomach growl or noisy escape of gas), I was working on a birthing unit as a floor clerk. The nurse’s station was set up galley style, with desks running up and down each side, connected by doctor’s dictation stations at one end, and central, fetal monitoring on the other. The clerk’s station was set up opposite the charge nurse’s desk and often the clerk and charge would push back on their roll-y, dark vinyl covered chairs and bump one another, back to back. Not a big deal, it was a normal occurrence. Well, on this one particular early morning, the floor was hoppin’ and babies were coming out of their mother’s left and right and the charge nurse had to take a patient until the day nurses arrived.

Bless her heart, this charge nurse, the woman of whom I sat back to back to and was in awe of her strength, knowledge, wisdom, and beauty… she was busy running to and fro, up and down from that awful, dark vinyl-covered chair. At one point, she hopped up to assist a patient and her chair slid next to where I was sitting, and that’s when I saw it: Butt and poot splotch. Honestly, I was so busy myself, I did not think anything of it until I heard the nurses to my left twittering and snickering and pointing at the chair. I made eye contact with the twitterers and snickerers and delivered to them an exaggerated cringe while I pushed the chair back to the charge’s station. I went back to my phone call, but I caught random snippets of their conversation and witnessed those nurses sharing the event with other nurses, all of whom acted cringe-y, just as I had. But most sadly? I never looked at the charge nurse the same, ever again. After bearing witness to her butt and poot splotch, I decided that she was the grossest woman EVER. *shakes head*

Pffft. Until now, of course. And DAMN how life comes back full circle and rubs our noses in all that we have once mocked!

And DAMN how life comes back full circle and rubs our noses in all that we have once mocked!

This new phenomenon has nearly destroyed me because I have always been a body perfectionist, especially in regard to cleanliness and female freshness. Like, I religiously wipe front to back, wash the poot daily with mild soap and rinse with a detachable shower head. A detachable shower head is mandatory for proper hygiene practices, I mean, how can a poot get clean and rinsed from a damn stationary shower head? That’s yeast, UTI, and bacterial vaginosis inbound STAT, like, right about the corner.… The oven must be carefully maintained and wrapped only in breathable cotton, not any of that nylon and silk (not even cotton lined!) sexy shit that men think is so great. No way, only the most natural for poot because stinky and itchy is NOT ACCEPTABLE. No excuses! That is how a female must roll. We must roll with clean and fresh butts and poots, always.

But. BUT. All the hygiene in the world will not stop that damn ovary from humiliating me with butt and poot splotch.

*Tears* here, peeps, mortified, shocked, embarrassed *tears*

And how many times has a young mind and body bared witness to my splotch? What must they think of me? What should I do about this, other than ingest herbals to combat overheating?

I feel like I should wear a sign (not really, C'mon, peeps), a sign that calls it out, like, “Hey! Please don’t acknowledge my splotch with disgust and disdain for what you think I MUST be, but instead, acknowledge the splotch for what it is and feel sorry for me. ‘Cause I’m not nasty or dirty… I’m just overheating, and my last ovary is serving endless Karma on a platter!” I like the idea of such directness, but, of course, it’s not so realistic...

I could always sit on a towel, I have seen that done many times by other splotch-suffering women. Or. Maybe they’re protecting themselves from the filth of the seat because they’ve spotted my splotch at some point?!?

I don’t even know what to do!

Perhaps I could start a movement or support group or something. Yes, because the youth with un-embarrassing bodies need to understand that… ultimately, us oldies are mortified, betrayed, embarrassed, and apologetic for the behavior of our bodies.

Please don’t disvalue us, because one day, if you’re lucky, you will BE us…

... here I am. Ahhh yes... how smooth it is to have a direct flight but then... something always goes wonky.

First, lemme establish that OF COURSE life can always be worse and that being stuck in an airport is not the most catastrophic of events that could happen. I know this, but I am gonna complain, anyway.

Second, my butt hurts. Even buttocks as colossal as mine cannot withstand the form of a carry-on suitcase for too long.

Third, oh why oh why must it take forever for a pair of Bluetooth headphones to charge? Furthermore, with the advent of such extreme technology, why for won't the headphones playwhile they are charging?

Fourth of all, I would like for the food shops to deliver food to me. I do not want to stand up and lose my outlet... I have prime seating here behind the trash and recycle bins. I have two outlets and a huge pillar to lean back against! If I am stuck in an airport, I could not ask for a whole lot more...

Fifth, it would be grand to be back in the 80's and still a smoker. I would sit right here while writing this post and smoke a cigarette. I no longer smoke and I won't ever again until I am diagnosed to die, but man now would be a good time to puff on a Marlboro Menthol Light!!

SIXTH and finally. How appropriate that I am currently reading a national bestseller titled Station Eleven, a novel by Emily St. John Mandel.

Just read it, if you have time... and maybe you'll get why I find it "ironic" to be stuck in an airport itching to finish this novel. How blessed I am to be waiting for a replacement aircraft to arrive. I actually have time to read for fun!

So I love my cats, oh yes, and even my damn dawg, and I can tolerate the insurmountable globs of animal hair (thanks to Robot and his undying floor cleaning commitment) all over my house. I can deal with daily, early morning, on the dot, operation-feline-starvation-notifications, I can deal with stolen hair-ties and random “gifts” dropped on my side of the bed.

I can even deal with the dawg escaping to the basement to eat cat poop. I can tolerate picking up dawg poop in the yard. I can deal with dawg pee dead spots in my grass and shredded hostas along the back side of the house. I can deal with taking the stinky dawg to the groomer and wiping her paws off before she comes inside on a rainy day. I can deal with the dawg rolling in a splotch of dead grass (from dawg pee) and demolishing her fresh groom.

Oh yes. I can even deal with sticky tape on door frames, wall corners, furniture edges, and backs of barstools to deter feline claw-markings (leaving wonderful goo-tracks when peeled off, yes, I can even deal with that). I can deal with stepping in cat vomit and promptly calling the dawg to clean up the squished mess (she loves cat vomit, it’s one of her favorites). I can even deal with dawg vomit, of which the cats will not clean up and neither will the dawg.

I can deal with laying out puppy wee-pads for the cat that has a litter aversion, likely due to a flubbed declawing (before we rescued him, many littler experiments before we concluded what his issue was) so that he can go potty.

I can deal with flea treatments, even the ones that go wrong, ending with a cat slicing open my artery, licking the flea medication, and frothing at the mouth like Cujo and running about possessed for approximately five minutes. I can deal with the cats eating the dawg’s food, promptly booting the dawg out of the way and then promptly puking the food up (win, win, I guess, the dawg still gets her food!). I can deal with never being alone in my bed or the bathroom for the sake of ensuring that the cat is able to monitor the proper use of their bed and shower.

Ohmygawsh. I can deal with so much when it comes to loved ones, especially my furry loved ones because they’re faultless. I can deal with not being able to walk away from my plate of food without it being licked by a cat or snagged by a dawg (the dawg is getting better about this as she matures, her manners are evolving, see Auntie Piper & the Tortilla). I can deal with the dawg being scared of the lollipop-girl on a scooter, the garbage truck, the vacuum, the broom, plastic bags, the pooper scooper, and the swiffer. I can deal with rushing to shut the back or front door before an entitled feline strolls over the threshold to escape among the world of birds, rabbits, squirrels, and scary cat-haters.

I can even deal with people wrinkling their nose when I tell them I have FIVE cats.

I can deal with dawg and cat zoomies and cat explorations that result in decor on the floor and in the baby’s mouth. I can deal with the dawg chewing Blankie and when trying to poop, Blankie parts are hanging from her damn dawg butt and hubby has to help by pulling it out (but I’m not sexist! ). I can deal with finding Christmas tree tinsel in the cat poop and hanging my plants where the cats cannot eat them. I can deal with snags in my curtains because young cats assume they are for climbing… and for access to the hanging plant.

I can also deal with endless vacuuming of furniture and rugs, as well as endless washing of throw blankets (which makes for less furniture vacuuming). I can deal with endless dawg stares while I eat ANYTHING and the ghostly and creepy appearance of the old man cat whenever I handle any form of shredded cheese.

I can deal with the constant feline body forcing its way onto my computer keyboard, textbook, or notebook. Oh, and I can deal with drinking morning coffee and wearing some of it down my front as a result of a feline “pay attention to me” head bump to my mug. I can deal with having to wipe my kitchen counters before using them (because I’m not about to put sticky tape up there, too) and washing the kitchen table off before eating at it (on the rare occasion that we DO eat there).

Additionally, I can even deal with the humiliation of a late night trip to the bathroom, stooping to pet a kitty, only to discover it’s a slipper or a pile of clothes that are somewhere they shouldn’t be.

Yeah, I can deal with that, even when I flip on the light to discover the mocking stares of the lounging cats of which I thought I might be petting.

Omygawsh, shamefully, I can deal with watching a nurse (that was sent by my insurance company to assess and draw blood before I got approval for a life insurance policy) sit at my kitchen table and leave with old man cat hair on the butt of her black scrub pants (the horror, especially when you consider yourself above the standard cat owner). What’s even worse is that hubby noticed it, too, and neither one of us told her!

And… I can deal with my allergies to both cats and dawgs. I can deal, I take a daily allergy tab and keep up on dusting and vacuuming. Good enough *shrugs*

Yeah, yeah, I can deal with all of this. But, if you haven’t already guessed…

…I CANNOT deal with the smell of cat piss in my home. No. Way.

Nope. Not gonna honor that stereotype. Not gonna be that stinky lady in the store or the lady that co-workers secretly unify together in being grossed out over (likely already occurring because that’s right, I have five flipping cats!). Naw.

Gonna conquer that smell and discover where it is coming from and eliminate it…

**UPDATE**

Totally discovered where the cat piss smell was coming from! In the basement, among scattered stacks of boxes, a secret, pooping and pissing field upon something fabric. Solution? Organize the scattered stacks, ensuring that there are not any hiding-holes left for old man cat to rejoice in contaminating. Also, pick up anything plastic bag or fabric like (except wee-pads).

Strangely enough, I asked myself this, just this evening, as I was snuggling myself into sleep.

Now I am awake. I’m not completely sure why tonight (of all nights) I have become “sleepless” over this question.

Am I spiteful? Am I sexist? Are there implications for being so? Especially for a female?

Ouch.

You see, I live among a generation that believes (at least partially) in the supremacy of the male gender, and also believes in the strict honor of female weakness. Additionally, I was raised by a generation that quoted the Bible in terms of women and their value. For example, “Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak… And if they will learn anything, let them ask their husbands at home.” 1 Timothy 2:13-15

WTF. Hm.

EARLY RECORDED MAN lived by a standard of which has been detailed in many Bible writings. They lived in a time of great political and religious upheaval, along with violent repression and oppression. The dudes who contributed to the writings of the Holy Book sell short the entirety of a higher power (God) by trying to harness the vastness in terms of writing and /or storytelling. And clearly, some of those guys didn’t like women.

Hm again.

So I’m not buying all parts of the Bible. No, and mostly because the Bible is the word of MAN, not God. God, as I see it, cannot be expressed and comprehended on a human level. Nature is as close as humans can come to understanding the enormity of God and existence. I know, I know… there are many who will argue with me, condemn me, and likely pray for my redemption. There’s no need and please don’t. That’s not what this post is about.

How does any of this have to do with me being sexist? It doesn’t really, all that only establishes my take on the old-fashioned view of women and how society has come to believe the way that they do.

Moving on.

Long ago, when I was a wee, bratty, chubby, little one, I noticed one thing in particular and inquired to my grandmother:

“Grandma, why are the girl birds not as pretty as the boy birds?”

At that point, in my youthful, Wonder Woman obsessed little life, I had only witnessed the real world on television. The Dukes of Hazard, with sexy Daisy, Wonder Woman with the amazing Linda Carter and her fabulous boots, and Gilligan’s Island, with the powerful, glamorous Ginger. Women were meant to be beautiful and captivating, right?

Oh, but my slim, red-headed grandma responded to my question with truth and love, she said:

“Tweetie Bird, the girl bird lays the eggs and watches over them. If she has bright colors like her husband, she will be found while sitting on the eggs by other birds that want to steal her eggs. She must stay in disguise to protect them. The husband-bird will go out and gather food or nest materials. However, he is working just the same and the more beautiful he is, the more other boy birds will fear him and all that is his.”

Her explanation made sense to me, even scientifically, at the time. However, I felt sad that a female bird worked so hard to lay eggs, care for the eggs, and then care for the babies and for what? She doesn’t even get to look pretty.

I don’t feel sad about that anymore, of course. I see it now for what it is. It’s nature and the momma bird could care less about her dull feathers. People do, though.

People harshly judge others that have dull feathers.

So why am I wondering, in the middle of the night, if I am sexist?

When I am angry at my husband, I will tell him I think that he is sexist. I believe this because his ideas often default to the female doing the typical retro-wife-thing: looking beautiful all day long while I scrub the damn house, cooking and baking the damn food, running asses off after kids (in high heels, probably), and dreaming of ways to be a better damn wife (my words, of course, not his). Additionally, when I am angry at him, I believe that he would prefer that I am mindless, kinda like a Stepford Wives-type scenario. He denies that, of course. But think about it, who wouldn’t want every whim and need to be met without question? At least for a little while?

Am I spitefully sexist??

I don’t know, but I do have some complaints. However, many of these points span across both genders, so please note, this post is not directed at any ONE MALE (no whining):

Most men think women cannot drive (“What are you waiting for?” or “Geeeessseee, on your way to a fire?” or “Geeeeesseee, you missed a bump back there, wanna go back and get it?”)

Most men cannot acknowledge their own bad behavior or faults; they consider themselves blameless (“I cheated because she got fat and bitchy” or “I cheated because she cheated first.”)

Most men are suckers and easily manipulated by beauty and will totally throw their sig other under the bus to continue receiving attention from beauty (“What was I supposed to do, throw her off my lap?”)

Most men cannot load a dishwasher properly (“Oh, the spatula wasn’t in the way of the arm when Istarted it.”)

Most men snore, keeping their significant other awake for large portions of the night (“Geeeeeesssse… all I asked was where’s the milk and you have to get all hyper and bitchy for no reason.”)

Most men cannot find the milk in the fridge to save their life.

And mostly:

Most men expect sex from their significant other like it’s their right (“You used to want to have sex all the time, now you don’t. You must have somebody else.” or “You’ve taken sex away from me, what will you take next?”)

Hm.

But really, I wish for the world to accept that men and women are two halves of a whole, and no one is any better than the other. What most men cannot do, most women can. What most women cannot do, most men can.

No, I don’t think that men are idiots just because they’re men. I guess if I did think that, THAT would qualify me as sexist. I believe people, including men, choose their behavior.

No, I don’t believe that men should hold doors for women, however, I DO feel that people should hold doors for people.

No, I don’t believe that ONLY men should be police officers or firemen. However, I WILL say that I believe men, on the average, are physically stronger than women. Of course, there are exceptions, as always, and I have actually seen some bad-ass women cops. Regardless, men, in general, are physically stronger than women and usually taller, too.

And on and on I could go, but it’s time to publish this post as it unexpectedly got too deep.

In short, I don’t think that it is necessarily sexist that I am, but more so a realist and equalist. Yeah, and humble-ist. I have no problem owning what I can and cannot do, at least not so much anymore. I have pride, of course, but I also do not have too much of it (anymore) and have become fluent in admitting defeat.

There is this little human, this incredible little human being, who has my heart.

There's this thing, or rather, there's this time in life when one has the honor of becoming a grandparent.

Oh yeah, blah, blah, how cliche is that?!? But really, I understand that aging is not to poo'd-poo'd and that in the past I have only done so because I wasn't there yet, in life, OR in mental capacity. Sadly.

I feel that as a youth, I was shallow. I based life and the value of life on physical objectives, like beauty and smooth skin and build and grace and scent and dear gawds, even teeth (I've always been funny about teeth). As a youth, I was disconnected from the aspect of aging, like, it was so far in the future that I could not fathom it.

My mother was aging and I did not consider her particularly beautiful because of that, same with both of my grandmothers. My grandfathers were more formidable; age did not seemingly deteriorate their worth and presence of strength, in the eyes of the youthful me.

Wow... that REEKS of social sexism! So often society views woman as man-objects with their worth being based on their perceived and subjective beauty. When that's gone (beauty and sexiness), a woman is less valuable... sadly, her mind is still intact, but why does that matter? Oh boy. I could rant about this for hours, but I will not... not here in my post about precious Googs ︎.

How very narcissistic humans are, really, by nature... how collectively UN-insightful humans are as well.

Anyway, so, if you haven't noticed by now, I go on, quite often, about aging, and I have no problems voicing my insecurities about that occurrence. Sometimes I feel that in acknowledging what we fear, and voicing that fear (whether it be out loud or to an empty room, or to the random cat or dog on the bed, or to the hubby that is clearly experiencing his own battle with aging, or to the reflection in the mirror), we gain power and dignity to face it... to face that thorn-in-the-side, nagging, unspeakable, debilitating, desperate fear OF AGING.

So then I became a grandma.

After having three children of my own, I have not been able to fathom having more heart to give, or adoring other little humans as much as I do them. But I DO have more heart to give and I AM capable of adoring other little humans, just as much, in this surreal, strange, magical, powerful and TOTALLY relaxed manner! Like, I LITERALLY have all the answers now... to child rearing and most of those answers have the same common denominator:

Savor, appreciate, and SERIOUSLY don't fret the tiny things!

For example, as a young mother, I was uptight about my children eating, especially my oldest. He was finicky and I was worried that he'd starve, right before my very eyes! When I introduced him to spoon feeding, he did not want anything to do with it; he liked ba and cereal ba. Oh my, I was so stressed out about this! I would sit down daily and try and try and try to get him to eat the nummy deliciousness of Gerber from a tiny, rubber-coated spoon, but NOPE. He would cry. And when he'd open his mouth to cry more, I'd slip the spoon in his mouth! What kind of idiot was I? Seriously, first, he could have aspirated, and second, how did I think that slipping food in his mouth while crying would make him want to be spoon fed at all? Ohdeargawds what a moron I was.

Now, of course, I know better. I know that those precious little ones will eat when they are hungry and they certainly won't starve before my very eyes...

Oh, my Googs ︎

That sweet, little baby eats just fine. Her momma blends up those little carrots and avocados and zucchini and potatoes (in the Baby Bullet! which is totally unnecessary but ridiculously adorable, what with its little smiling blender faces and what-not, making everything that the Googs ︎ momma does that much more adorable), portioning them adorably in freezer-safe containers getting them ready for the Googs ︎ belly.

Sometimes Googs ︎ will growl while she's eating. We haven't figured out yet exactly why. Possibly because she's hungry and therefore eats the potatoes or carrots but really she would prefer the peaches? Or bananas? In any case, it's silly funny. Googs ︎ is so full of personality, but really, what little human isn't?

When she was brand new, she developed her trademark cry, and actually, it was more bitching than crying. She would throat-whine, and make a face and the sounds she made came out sounding like, "Goog." Yes, so now she's Googs ︎.

I am crazy in love with her and just thinking of her pulls at my heartstrings. She's precious and her little, chubby skin is so soft, and her little hazel eyes are so inquisitive, and her fat little toes are attached to the chubbiest, cutest feet! Her little fingers (that so resemble her mamma's!) are precise and dimpled and are purposely reaching for everything, while she "googs" and "dah-dahs" and shrieks in delight about all the simple things in this big, big world!

She sucks on her bottom lip and I imagine that by now she is getting familiarized with the feeling of the one, perfect little tooth that is busting through her little gums. Sometimes she'll smile around the lower lip sucking, and sometimes she'll just stare at whomever... like they've lost their mind.

She's Googs ︎ and she's perfect.

Until her, I rolled my eyes when grandmas would speak of their little grand-babies, how useless and pointless, I would think, to be a grandmother. After all, being a grandmother means you've gotten old, lost your human importance, and cease to matter to the rest of society. That may be true in the eyes of many youths, but I am working on not caring about that anymore because I matter to Googs ︎.

Rock on, Grandmas of the world! Rock on! It's an honor to grow old and achy and wrinkly and chubbier and crankier and itchier and watch your loved ones love their loved ones... ︎

I feel as though it's an honor to have reached the point in life where I can pass my wisdom on to my baby-girl, as she raises HER baby-girl. I hope that in sharing what I've learned with her, she will be more able to relax and enjoy and not FRET!

Seriously, by now I should know better than to relinquish future association of ANYTHING!

The story of duuuuumb bitch #5 starts like this...

Long, long ago, I worked in this crappy factory (the same crappy factory that I wrote about in I hate the word, "Panties.") and stumbled upon the opportunity to work in the administrative offices for a short stint, much to the dismay of my fellow floor workers. If you've never worked in a factory, especially a crappy one, consider yourself lucky. When I entered the healthcare field, I remember being culture shocked. The difference in people and work ethics were large. Of course, there's always a slacker, scammer, stealer, faker, back-stabber, brown-noser where ever you go, but never as much as when you throw everybody into a factory, tell them to assemble a bunch of boring shit, make them do it fast while standing in one place, turning the temperature waaaaaay up, adding in the smell (and the feel) of melting plastic... and you've got a crappy factory, full of petty gossip, petty competition, and petty drama... and all of that at the most archaic and brutal of levels.

I got off the floor and away from the receiving docks and junky forklifts for a while and I was ecstatic! I literally remember feeling as though life had new meaning...

That relief was only further confirmed after I caught word of a fellow floor worker stating that I only received that opportunity (and he didn't) because I was fat, just like everybody else "up there," and skinny, good-looking guys (as he categorized himself) weren't allowed. Of course, the fat comment stung a bit, even if it was true (especially at that time), but I filed it away smugly and kept on.

Anyway.

So there I am, drowning in the administrative duties, and trust me, I had no idea, OR CONFIDENCE, in what I was doing. None. Zilch. When I reflect on that opportunity, I actually feel bad for the lady (aka Night Sweat) that chose me as her assistant because I was clueless as to what she wanted and no matter how many times I tried to ask or figure it out, I simply could not grasp the scope of what I needed to do. It was the weirdest thing and I still wonder to this day how I managed to NOT conquer that position especially because my nature is that of a conqueror, so to speak. The me of now is not afraid to figure something out, regardless of possibly placing myself at looking-stupid-risk. Anyway, throughout that administrative adventure, I don't think I completed anything that was of any use to her, at all. Pretty sure not even once.

So one morning, there I sat at my little island desk surrounded by other fatties that knew what they were doing and the general manager himself (who often smelled like a hangover and whined about how the hottest girl in the plant was dating him, but not treating him right, blah, blah...). I loved mornings because everybody kept to themselves and I could savor sips of my fountain Mt. Dew and chug my 5-hour-energy, waiting for the superpowers to hit. However, on this morning, the lady I was assisting (aka Night Sweat) was restless; she was sighing and moving about her cubicle, exuding some funky energy that could not be overlooked.

Somebody finally asked her what was wrong (it was actually the one un-fat woman who worked up there), and the lady I was assisting (aka Night Sweat) said, "Oh dear god, I am so sorry if I am distracting anybody, but I am having a terrible, terrible hot flash!"

Hm.

I remember looking up from whatever I was attempting to do and judging her. I was appalled. And sickened. I knew that if she was sitting there having a hot flash, that meant she was sweating, and she already wasn't a pretty picture (in my judgy, snot-faced book). I was mortified. I worried that with her sweating might also come with her stinking. How frightfully gross! But most of all, I could not fathom why she would even admit to having a hot flash.

Who would dare admit to having a hot flash?!?

Then two things happened:

First, she stood up from her chair, leaving behind splotches of sweat, even where her butt had been. I had to look away, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I simply could not believe that these things were happening before my very, youth-entitled eyes.

Then, second, she walked by my island-desk, quickly. I remember holding my breath because I was afraid to smell what she might smell like, but then curiosity got the best of me; I breathed, carefully. It took a moment but then the waft followed shortly after she passed... She smelled like cedar chips. I thought that was odd. Cedar chips. I wondered if she was wearing clothes that she kept in a cedar chest? Did she burn cedar incense? Did she live in a cedar house or sit in a cedar chair? What? Did she wear cedar spray? How could an old lady that was sweating like a beast smell like cedar chips and NOT boob sweat or cheese??

For a few more weeks I worked that job, and I would watch her out of the corner of my eye, observing her morning struggles with sweating. I would almost retch. One time I noticed that the hair at her neck was wet and stringy, she was sweating so terribly. She would always leave her chair splotchy, but eventually, she placed a cushion on the chair. I wonder if it was because of the embarrassing butt splotches or for comfort? Maybe it was a cooling cushion? After I noticed the wet hair on her neck, I started calling her "Night Sweat" to myself and began associating her cedar chip smell with that of unwashed night sweats (*rolls eyes* who knows where this shit comes from).

OMYGAWSH, what is the point of this post!?

My point is this:

Shame me to hell for judging and looking down my stupid Dutch nose at that woman for sweating her ass off.

Shame. Shame. Shame!

Because guess what? Guess who's having the hot flashes now? That's right... this duuuuumb bitch, right here. Right. Here. Oh, lemme tell you how unbearably unpleasant they are, how tired they make me, how embarrassed they make me!

So I look around, as I suffer (likely Karma for being so inside-my-head-nasty about Night Sweat woman), and I wonder what little snot-faced youngin' is judging me as beastly gross and holding their breath as I walk by afraid that I might stink? I check my seat when I am at work after I've been sitting (on that rare occasion) to check for splotch because it happens!

Splotch Happens!

All that appalled me is now happening to me. All of it.

I think of Night Sweat woman often. I feel like a shit for being so in-my-head-mean. I feel so bad that she struggled like she did. I feel terrible that she splotched her chair and sweated so bad that her hair stuck in strings to her neck. I feel so bad that I held my breath assuming that she would stink. But mostly, I feel bad that there are some young species viewing me as I viewed her, subjecting my human worth into a little, useless box. It hurts, man... it hurts getting old, knowing that you're losing rank. And it hurts, man... knowing that this will occur over and over again, a woman such as myself will write about her changes in life and how helpless she feels against those changes. Ugh. My words will likely change very little in the big of this world, however, those damn hot flashes have humbled and changed me...

I am the new Night Sweat woman.

]]>https://www.prozacandcoffee.org/duuuuumb-bitch-the-infamous-impervious-me/feed/0995Auntie Piper & the Tortilla
https://www.prozacandcoffee.org/auntie-piper-the-tortilla/
https://www.prozacandcoffee.org/auntie-piper-the-tortilla/#respondFri, 13 Jul 2018 01:49:25 +0000https://www.prozacandcoffee.org/?p=985Auntie Piper is one of the kewlest souls I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. She’s honestly too good for this world and I seriously feel as though human beings, even in their rawest and most generic forms, do not deserve those such as Auntie Piper.

Auntie Piper is my dog, of course. Yes, the one that I constantly watch poop, because that’s what good dog owners do. Naw, naw, good dog owners aren’t watching their dogs poop as a signal of solidarity or obsession, naw, I watch Auntie Piper poop because she’s a dog and obsessed with chewing on such things as her blankie, or her canvas fire hydrant, or her canvas lizard, or …. something that she figures we no longer need, like, a dryer sheet or something.

Anyway, we approximate Auntie Piper to have been born in late April of 2017. She was found with several litter mates and other puppies in a tote on the shoulder of a country road on a hot day in late June of that same year. We rescued her, of course, and even now, as she licks my decorative throw pillow, I can’t help but wonder if, in fact, she rescued us. Isn’t that a cute and original thing to say?

So she’s a good dog. She stays in her yard, for the most part, and comes when we call. She loves the neighbor across the street, and we refer to him as her boyfriend. She’s now trained to not run and greet him without permission. Sometimes she forgets, though, and I have to call her back, have her sit, and then give her permission to go.

I’m a cat person. I’m an introvert and I prefer to be left alone. Dogs don’t do that; dogs don’t leave you alone, and if they do, they leave you alone only to watch you. Dogs like to please people and seek approval. It doesn’t make me feel good or cool when she listens to me, it makes me feel guilty. I feel bad that she thinks I know what is best for her. Yes, of course, on many levels, I do know what’s best, like not chewing and eating blankie, for example, however, she knows so much more about LIVING and loyalty than I do! She was born with nothing but goodness in her little doggie heart.

Anyway, Auntie Piper is Auntie Piper because of how gentle and kind she is to Googs, whom I have yet to write about… but I will get to all of that in another post.

But tonight, she pulled a dog-move. It wasn’t a big deal, but silly and so typical of Auntie Piper.

She never gets into the trash, or drinks out of the toilet. She won’t lick a dirty plate that is put down in front of her unless we say it’s ok. Also, she hardly eats her food, but she loves our food… and cat puke (oh that’s so handy!). But the point of this post… tonight she got into the trash. Yes. It was taco night tonight and a charred tortilla ended up in the trash, of which has a flip- lid, btw. Auntie Piper got into the trash and pulled out that charred tortilla, but being Auntie Piper, however, before eating the tortilla, she snuck up silently next to my bed and watched me for a moment. When I turned away from the ridiculous homework I was doing, I see this:

She stood and stood like that, sliding her eyes back and forth between hubby and myself. How desperately she wanted to dog-gobble that unfortunate tortilla… but oh how guilty she felt snagging it from Trash Can!

She only ate the tortilla after I asked her to give it and I gave it back to her, telling her it was alright. Omygawsh… what kind of dog-mom am I… condoning eating out of the trash and all….